


Nothing gold can stay

by hope_calaris



Category: The Tudors
Genre: Hate Sex, Love/Hate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-16 14:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope_calaris/pseuds/hope_calaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir Francis thinks he knows everything about Suffolk and Cromwell. Well, he’s wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing gold can stay

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the announcement of the “Six articles of faith”.

He sits in his empty office, blindly staring into the flames of one of the candles and seething over the events of the day. Everything is turned backwards, everything he had fought for has become undone, like it has never existed in the first place. It’s like he’s never been in power, and isn’t that the irony of it? He can’t possibly get any more power, and still he feels useless as never before. Useless and furious, oh, so furious.  
  
He gets up, takes an inkwell and throws it through the room – right next to the head of the Lord of Suffolk, who just appeared without warning in his chambers.  
  
“What?” Cromwell shouts at the intruder, who just raises an eyebrow at the explosion of rage. “Came to gloat _again_?”  
  
“Well, you can’t deny it has a certain kind of entertainment to it to see you throw things, when usually you’re always so calm and collected.”   
  
It only makes Cromwell angrier to hear this silk, smooth voice taunting him. “You can go and tell your friends,” Cromwell’s voice is laced with hatred in response, “that you succeed in winning this battle, but not the war ... your _grace_.”  
  
Suffolk’s face gets darker, his expression more determined, when he takes a few steps and comes to a halt right in front of Cromwell. He refuses to be intimidated by Suffolk’s height and presence, not even when Suffolk bends forward, so his mouth is near Cromwell’s ear.  
  
“You _will_ lose this war – I will make sure of it, Thomas,” he whispers softly with all the authority of somebody of nobility, of somebody who won’t lose everything with the snap of a finger, and Cromwell has had enough. He jerks away and pushes Suffolk against a wall. His arm nearly crushes Suffolk’s throat and Cromwell trembles, he’s so angry.   
  
“Why? In the Lord’s name, why?” He pushes Suffolk once more against the wall, with enough force that it has to hurt the other man. “I only did what his majesty wanted! I gave him a new religion! One that is free from all the superficiality and the wickedness of the Satan in Rome!”  
  
“Of course.” Suffolk doesn’t move an inch under Cromwell. “You did everything for the king, because you have no agenda of your own,” he says sarcastically.   
  
“Oh, for the love of – “ Cromwell never gets to finish that sentence, because from one moment to the next Suffolk is moving, and he turns their bodies around so Cromwell is pushed against the wall. The next thing he knows, Suffolk’s mouth crashes against his, and what they no longer can fight out with words they use their mouths and tongues for. It’s a familiar battle as it is a useless one, and they already have fought it during some sleepless nights without a clear victor emerging.   
  
“I ... I hate you, Charles,” Cromwell pants when he’s not busy biting Suffolk’s exposed skin, and is rewarded with a throaty laugh bordering on hysteria. “You’re the king’s _golden_ boy. Nothing can touch you,” he growls and shoves Suffolk’s fur coat and shirt out of the way. He needs to touch as much skin as he can. He wants to leave marks on this untouchable skin, on which everything seems to just roll off. He scrapes and bruises, and there will probably questions coming in the morning, but as with everything else it won’t bother Suffolk for long. Nothing ever does, and that thought makes Cromwell bite down hard just beneath the collarbone of the other man. “It is not fair, nothing about you is.”  
  
“If it’s any comfort,” Suffolk spits out while loosening Cromwell’s trousers, “I hate you, too.”  
  
For a second, Cromwell stops all movement and just laughs. It’s completely insane what they’re doing here, and they will lose their heads if ever found out – well, at least he will lose his head, the golden boy will probably just add another title to his collection. “This is insane,” he tells Suffolk.  
  
“As if you care,” he replies with an eye roll and hands Cromwell the oil.   
  
“You wouldn’t die,” Cromwell murmurs when he prepares himself. “You’re the lucky one.” He doesn’t expect another attack from Suffolk, but he shoves him angrily away and caught in his trousers Cromwell clumsily stumbles against a cabinet.   
  
“I’m not the lucky one, don’t you dare to tell me this!” he shouts, holding Cromwell in his place.  
  
“But you married the king’s sister without his consent! And now look at you! You’re still his favourite!” Cromwell’s voice is rising as well.  
  
“Margaret’s dead! And Catherine won’t even look at me anymore because of you!” he breathes against Cromwell’s lips. “I sacrificed everything, _everything_ on the altar of your crusade. My conscience, my marriage, _my unborn child_!” His grip on Cromwell’s arms lessens, but the hate is still alive and burning in his eyes, and Cromwell can’t stand it anymore.   
  
“It’s not my fault,” he says and kicks Suffolk’s feet from under him. Stunned from the fall he lies on the carpet and in the next moment Cromwell is above him, getting rid of his trousers. “You sacrificed your conscience for nothing,” he whispers and thrust into the man under him. “We _both_ lost,” he murmurs and punctuates every single word with a thrust. “I didn’t get the reformation I wanted, and the one we got came too late to save the Pilgrimage of the Grace ... and you.” He tries to get lost in the feeling of the skin next to his, but is hard when all he wants to do is to take a dagger and kill the other man for everything he stands for, for everything Cromwell wants and can never have.  
  
“I will _kill_ you, Thomas,” Suffolk responds like he read Cromwell’s thoughts. His skin is beautiful in the way the sweat makes it shimmer in the candlelight. _Golden boy_ , Cromwell thinks again, and feels his release coming nearer. He closes his eyes and tries to forget whose hands are roaming over his back, who makes him feel like this. “I will kill you, Thomas. I promise,” are the last words he hears before Suffolk takes him over the edge.  
  
“Not if I kill you first,” he answers.  
  
 _\- fin_


End file.
